A Tale of Two Thieves
by TinkerbellReturns
Summary: Back in Portland, Neal sends Emma on a treasure hunt around town that will make her revisit a number of moments she spent with him, including fine dining under fake names, being heroes for a day and getting into trouble with a bunch of gypsies. At the end of her journey, she will have a decision to make – one that will seal their fate as a couple for once and for all.
1. Chapter 1: Back to the Beginning

_**Disclaimer: Emma Swan does not belong to me. Neither does Neal Cassidy, unfortunately…**_

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_**A/N: This fic combines Neal and Emma in the present, and in the past. Therefore, the layout for each chapter (except perhaps the last one) will consist of a first half in which I describe the present, and a second part composed of a flashback. For identification purposes, the first sentence of every flashback will be italicized, and under a line. This is meant to be a fluff, smut-free fic that delves into their first days together, when romance was not yet in their plans. I hope you enjoy it!**_

* * *

**Chapter 1: Back to the beginning**

There were things about Neal Cassidy that she would never understand. Like, for instance, making her pack and leave for Portland with nothing but a two-hour notice. As if she – they- didn't have other important things to deal with! Of course, maybe after rescuing their son from a destiny worse than death in an unknown land, seeing half their family suffer all kinds of torment – both physical and emotional – during battle and on their journey home, they did need some time to get things back on track. Mainly, they needed time, and courage, to finally talk about all things that were left unsaid in those eleven years that had kept them apart.

She had been avoiding that moment like the plague, and she had the impression that so had he. But now, as she kissed Henry goodbye and waved to her parents at the porch while Neal waited for her next to the taxi, she couldn't help but feel that the time had finally come.

And Emma Swan knew she was not ready, although she had rehearsed that moment a million times inside her head. It was easy to rant and speak her mind when he was not around; it was easy to practice her lines in front of a mirror. However, every time she looked at his face, her anger at him seemed to fade, and the bitter words stuck in her throat would dissolve into a smile.

It was almost as if not a single day had passed since their days in Portland, but days _had_ passed. Plenty of them. Eleven years of solitude and unanswered questions fell between them, and the truth was that they were not the same people they used to be. Perhaps parts of their younger selves remained… but were they enough?

Perhaps it was the answer to that question, a question that would inevitably arise in their conversation, what scared her the most.

Her gaze caught up with his, and his eyes had that shadow of sorrow and sadness that she had grown to know so well after they met again in Manhattan. A shadow that seemed to have stuck permanently on him, even after they had both admitted their lingering feelings for each other before he fell through that portal, even after the passionate kisses they had exchanged ever since their reunion…

Maybe the answer to that question scared him too.

"I take it we're flying," she asked, after joining him on the backseat of the vehicle.

"We are."

They remained abnormally silent on the journey to the airport, his usual playful façade substituted by a more thoughtful one. She would fidget with her cell phone, looking at its screen every now and then, looking for a distraction as her eyes darted from the window to her own hands.

"Emma…"

"Yes?"

His voice had made her jump.

"What is it like?"

"What?"

"Flying… in an airplane?"

She gasped, unable to hide her surprise.

"This is your first time flying?"

"In an airplane, yes…" he whispered, looking at his own hands as he pouted.

The taxi driver raised an eyebrow and glanced at them from the rearview mirror, probably wondering what other methods of flying an ordinary citizen had at his disposal.

"Well… Let's say it's safer than a flying carpet."

"That doesn't help much…" he whimpered. "Almost anything is safer than a flying carpet."

"You can watch TV… People usually serve you something to drink…" she said, trying not to laugh as she looked at his apprehensive face. "And you get to wear seatbelts, so I guess you'll be good."

"Will you hold my hand?" he asked, and if it weren't for the little smile curling his lips, she would have really thought he was serious.

"If you really mean your _hand_… Yes, I can hold it."

By that time, they were both smirking at each other, but the taxi driver couldn't help but frown at their exchange.

Maybe she shouldn't have brought the flying carpet into the conversation, after all.

* * *

"It was not as bad as I thought," he said, grinning widely as they stood before the door to their hotel room.

"Yeah…" Emma answered, flexing the fingers he had almost broken during take-off and landing. "Definitely not…"

When he entered the room and immediately searched for the TV remote control, she dropped her bag on the bed and let out a sigh, feeling tired, antsy and frustrated with the man's silence… with the fact he had not even attempted to make a move on her, to try and persuade her to do something naughty in that airplane, or in the airport, or even now that they were alone, next to a bed…

Not that she would have agreed to it, of course. She would have pushed him away, told him that they were going too fast, that she was not ready yet, that they should talk first… Or maybe she wouldn't. _Most likely_ she wouldn't, which only made matters worse.

She wanted it, but apparently, he didn't.

"Neal…" she took a deep breath as she sat on the edge of the bed. "Will you tell me what this is all about?"

"We need to talk."

"I know. But why Portland? Couldn't we have talked at home?"

"We could, but…" he replied, looking at his own hands as he fumbled with his scarf. "There are some things I need you to see."

"Like?"

He opened his mouth to speak again, but changed his mind. Instead, he lifted his eyes to hers, and smiled.

"We should get some rest," he said. "Tomorrow… You'll see."

She shook her head in defeat. If there was one thing she knew about Neal Cassidy, was that he could be annoyingly stubborn when he wanted to, and there would be no point in arguing if his mind was made up.

"Wanna shower first?"

When she raised her eyes, she noticed he had approached her on the bed, and was now holding out a towel, which she took from his hands in silence before heading to the bathroom.

* * *

The weather was slowly changing, just as the weather channel had predicted. Hopefully, tomorrow would be a rainy day. It had to be. Otherwise, half of his plan would go down the drain.

_To think that eleven years had gone by…_

He was standing by the window, looking outside as memories filled his mind.

_Eleven years._

It felt like yesterday.

* * *

_It was another rainy afternoon in Portland, and Emma Swan couldn't possibly care less._ As soon as the thunders started rolling, she took off her jacket and threw it upon the man on the driver's seat, only to open the door and run outside. A real nut.

Neal Cassidy watched, with a frown, as the girl jumped in puddles and opened her arms, letting the heavy rain wash over her. His eyes lingered on her face when she raised it to the sky, smiling.

What a strange, _strange _person.

He let out a sigh. That was what you got when you decided to park your car in some alley to take a nap in the backseat. Technically, the bug was not even his anymore: it had taken him a lot of talk and swagger to convince the girl to let him take the driver's seat every now and then. But he could not complain, really: Emma Swan was good at her trade. Picking locks, swiping food, acting… Girl had a truly impressive portfolio.

His eyes wandered down her figure, from her dripping wet ponytail to her hips, her feminine curves more obvious than ever now that the wet fabric of her dress clung to her body.

"Get your mind… off the gutter," he told himself, after clearing his throat. The only reason she had agreed to hang around was business related – two sets of sticky fingers were likely to make better hauls than a single one. And it was not as if he needed, or _wanted,_ a girlfriend, anyway.

He shifted on his seat, uncomfortably.

"Emma!" he yelled, rolling down the window an inch so that his voice could get past it. "I'll have to move the bug, the water is going up."

"No, it's not," she yelled back, without turning to look at him. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, at least I'm not the one making a fool of myself in the middle of the street."

"You're a fool anyway," she said, smiling at him as she finally whipped her head around. "Even if you don't make it public."

"Thanks for the reminder…" he complained, turning on the engine and driving slowly as she walked along the car. "I'll meet you on Fifth."

"I'm not going."

"What?"

"I want a warm bed tonight. And dry clothes."

"Aww, come on…"

He hated going to shelters. _Hated it._ He would rather sleep on a bench by the park than going to those places. Especially after the night he and Emma had gone to one to spend the night after a blizzard, and a drunk had groped her while she slept – which eventually resulted in him getting kicked out of the place after nearly beating said drunk to a bloody pulp.

"You don't have to come with me," she said. "I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, right."

It was not as if he doubted her self-defense skills. He knew she could take care of herself if another drunk ever tried to have his way with her, but still… he didn't want her to get hurt.

"Well, wait for me here, then, I'll find somewhere safe to park the car."

"Choose wisely," she said, as more rain poured down her smiling face. "Last time you parked in an alley… you know what happened."

Oh, yes.

_He did._


	2. Chapter Two: Extra Mayo

**A/N: Thanks for your reviews! I am having a lot of fun writing this story, and I can assure you there are plenty of Swanthief feels on the way... I believe that even before Emma and Neal became a couple, they were really close to each other, and seeing the walls around their hearts crumble down is a very interesting journey, in my opinion. I hope you enjoy it as well! **

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**Chapter Two: Extra Mayo**

When Emma Swan woke up the next morning, there was no one by her side.

"Neal?"

She sat up, waiting for a response, but after calling out for him a second time, she simply let out a sigh. Whatever it was he was planning to do, it apparently included not spending much time near her: the night before, he had spent hours sitting by the desk, scribbling things he would not let her see, and had only joined her in bed after she had fallen asleep, something she only noticed when, in the middle of the night, she was the accidental target of one of his hypnic jerks.

Although they had hardly ever slept in a bed together during their days in Portland, if there was one thing that she could remember, was that the man could deliver some powerful blows during sleep. Eleven years later, it seemed he still could. She smiled, wondering if she did the same while she was asleep. If she did, he had never told her - and she was sure he would have complained, just like he used to groan about her snoring.

Her former roommate, her mother, Mary Margaret, could vouch for that. Emma Swan was, indeed, a very loud snorer.

As she stood up and stretched, she thought that Henry would have a problematic marital life if he happened to pick up both traits from his parents: snoring and kicking would certainly make any potential wife unhappy. On the other hand, the boy seemed to have inherited his father's charms and a lot of his mother's attitude: a combination that would make any sleep condition sound immaterial to any love interest.

Boy was bound to be a heart-breaker from the head start.

Her smile faltered for a moment when she thought that they had been so close to being a family, the three of them. That she and Neal could have raised Henry together, seen his first steps, heard his first words, if only... She shook her head, trying to force back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. There was no point thinking about what could have been, she knew that.

She only wished it didn't hurt so much.

Trying to see the bright side of it - her son had found her, led her back to her parents, and now Neal was back as well, albeit under rather convoluted circumstances - she approached the desk, and saw a large cup of Starbucks hot chocolate next to a note.

_'Good morning, sheriff. You in the mood for some treasure hunting?'_

She peeked out of the window to check the weather, and raised an eyebrow at the heavy drizzle outside.

"Oh, yeah... You have no idea," she muttered, before reading on.

_'Yeah, I knew you would be. First stop: Café Armand. See map below._

_PS: Hope the hot chocolate is still hot, by the way. It's not as good as Granny's, but still...'_

She folded the note and looked at the map he had drawn. Cafe Armand was at the end of an alley, and laughter rattled inside her chest when she saw a little yellow dot at the middle of the narrow street, an arrow and then the words:

_'This is where I had parked my stolen car. Never again!'_

* * *

The place was as not as run-down as she remembered it. A decade later, the alley where the two of them had met, where it all had begun, was no longer covered by graffiti and commerce had thrived. Cafe Armand itself was a quaint little coffee shop with small flower pots on each table, jazz music playing quietly over the counter as friendly-looking people sipped their coffees and read their newspapers.

"Ms. Swan?"

She had barely taken a seat when one of the waiters approached her.

"Yes?"

"Here you go."

The man gave her an envelope, and then excused himself before she could actually ask what that was all about. She didn't really need to, however: as soon as she pulled out the piece of paper from inside the envelope, she recognized Neal's handwriting.

_'Okay. Now that you are officially in it, it's time for your first clue. No, actually, a word of explanation: my younger self mapped this out more than a decade ago, but as soon as I got to Portland, I realized a lot of things had changed, and some of the places we used to know no longer exist. Including that Shelly's Donut Parlor you used to love: sorry, baby. Guess that clue is lost forever…'_

She stopped reading for a moment, and let her eyes wander back to the beginning of the note. His writing had gotten much better, at least from what she could remember. Neal had always been a fan of books, but also very unsure of his reading and writing skills. Now that she knew the details of his past, she finally understood why he kept asking her to read some stories aloud, and why he felt so self-conscious every time she asked him to write down the instructions for their hits.

She was happy that in those eleven years, he had apparently gotten some formal training. She knew how much it must have meant to him.

_'I tried my best to keep the original route intact, but in case you come to a dead end at any time of the day, gimme a call and your knight in the shiny armor will come to your rescue. And if the knight fails, call the thief – he always delivers. Unless you fool around too much, this will take a couple of hours max, and some walking around the vicinity. That said, here goes: _

_"You want fries to go with that, sis?" _

_Don't let me down. Clue number two will be waiting for you there._

_PS: I hope you have brought your umbrella; if you haven't, the clerk has one for you.'_

She folded the note and put it back into the envelope, grinning widely. Yes, she knew exactly what he was talking about, but unless she was mistaken, the place she was supposed to head to was at least ten blocks away.

"Better get that umbrella..." she whispered, before heading to the counter under the gaze of a very curious clerk.

* * *

_"Emma! Let's go"_

_She was still walking in the rain when Neal called out for her_, sheltering himself from the rain under a bus stop on the sidewalk.

Her initial idea was to spend the night in a bed, have a hot meal for a change, get some dry clothes... But now she felt empty and sad, and the idea of going to a shelter only made her feel worse. It only made her remember that she had no one to look after her, that a shelter was the closest thing to a home she would ever get, and that it would never feel like a home at all: it was merely a place where she would be surrounded by strangers, by equally gloomy people who barely remembered who they were, who meant nothing to other people, who would never be missed if they died on their sleep.

_No one would miss her if she was gone._

She felt tears stream down her face when she thought of the last home she had been sent to, how her other siblings were happy with each other, how they had bonded and how she, despite all efforts not to, had felt like an outcast.

She wished she could belong somewhere, with someone.

The rain kept pouring over her head, and she was grateful for the raindrops that were mixing with her tears: this way, she wouldn't have to explain anything to the man who was now running towards her, covering his head with his jacket.

"Emma! Get out of the rain!" she heard him say, stretching the jacket over her head as well. "I've parked the bug, I'll go to the shelter with you."

"I've changed my mind."

"What?"

"I don't wanna go anymore."

She lifted her gaze to his, and saw him frown. The rain might have washed away the tears on her face, but her eyes were surely swollen and reddish, and her blocked nose changed her voice far too much for it to go unnoticed.

"Are you cr-"

"Can you lend me some clothes while I dry mine?"

For a moment, she thought he would insist, bombard her with questions until she finally told him what was going on. But instead, he simply raised his eyebrows, and urged her out of the rain.

"Sure..." he replied, as the two of them walked to the spot where the bug was parked. Every now and then, she could feel he would turn his head to look at her, but whatever he was thinking of saying never made it to his mouth. "I have to warn you, though," he said, as soon as they got to a parking space in front of a liquor store, "I'm not sure my clothes qualify as vintage. I get the feeling they are more like "dress-as-a-beggar" instead."

"That's fine," she whispered.

"I'm only saying," he replied, as he gave her a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans after careful consideration, as if choosing the items that looked the least shabby. Not that he had much to choose from: apart from them, there were only other two or three pieces of clothing on the trunk. "Because your clothes are quite... _fancy_, if you know what I mean."

She let out a sad chuckle when he studied her figure with a raised eyebrow, his face full of unasked questions that one day she would gladly answer.

"Thanks," she replied, grabbing the clothes and looking over his shoulder into the trunk. "Where do you keep your underwear?"

"What? What do you want my underwear for?"

"What do you think?"

She giggled when he blushed a little, scratching his head before reaching for a plastic bag hidden under the other clothes.

"Boxers or briefs?" he asked.

"A thong would be nice."

It was his turn to chuckle.

"Sorry. I left the Chippendales a while ago."

She tried not to, but before she knew it, she was laughing heartily at his words as she picked the white briefs he was handing her.

"Those are clean, right?"

He frowned at her question, looking deeply offended.

"Just asking. Turn around."

She knew enough of the world to know that undressing next to a man was not a very wise thing to do, but Neal Cassidy seemed to be so tremendously uninterested in her that she felt safe enough to trust him to protect her from sight as she got rid of her soaked clothes.

"You will end up catching a cold," he muttered, his back still turned to her.

"Nah. Colds are for sissies."

And then, just as she finished buttoning up her shirt, she sneezed, and whipped her head around to look at him, who was still not looking.

"Told ya."

"Oh, shut up," she replied, rubbing her nose and sniffing. "Do you have a belt?

"Yes."

"Can I borrow it?"

"I'm wearing it."

She remained silent, and waited until he turned his head to look at her.

"What?" he asked, and then his eyes finally caught her hand holding the front of the jeans she was wearing. Of course, they were far too big for her. "Okay, fine," he said at last, as he unbuckled his belt and gave it to her, complaining quietly under his breath.

"Thanks."

"Dressed to kill, ain't you?"

She chuckled again, unable to stop herself. She shouldn't be having so much fun with a random guy she barely knew, but at the same time...

"You hungry?"

His voice brought her back to reality.

"Kind of."

"Good," he replied, patting her on the shoulder before opening the car door. "Then hop in. There's something I want to teach you."

* * *

Not much later, the two of them were at the entrance of a fast-food drive thru.

"Next time you decide to go for a walk in the rain, Sherlock," he said, as she rubbed her arms and tried to warm herself, "make sure you take off your boots, at least."

She rolled her eyes, unwilling to concede part of the reason she was shaking so much was because she did not have a spare pair of shoes, and her feet were now freezing even after Neal had lent her his only spare pair of socks while they waited for her boots to dry.

"S-So," she replied, trying to steady her voice despite her chattering teeth, "what is the plan?"

"Okay, check this out," he turned to look at her as he licked his lips, and his eyes were full of excitement as he spoke. "I am going to order something, and you will interrupt me all the time with something different so that whoever is taking our order gets really confused, okay? Now, the thing is. The last part, the part when we pay... Or don't pay, right?" he paused to smirk, and she couldn't help but notice he looked awfully proud of himself. "This is crucial. _Always keep eye contact_. Keep the person's eyes glued to yours. If they are not paying total attention to what you are saying, they will notice what you're doing, and that's exactly what we don't want, ok?"

He was so enthusiastic about his own idea that she didn't have it in her to find flaw in his plan, so she simply nodded in agreement.

"So my part will be to confound the person taking the order?"

"Yup," he replied, biting his tongue as he pulled into the drive thru.

It didn't take long for her to fully understand what his trump card really was: the man was a natural flirter. She spent a long minute studying his face as he smiled and winked at the girl taking the order, wetting his lips every now and then. No wonder she had though he was hitting on her the day they met... he was good at that game, pretending he was interested when he actually wasn't.

When he turned his head to stare at her with wide eyes, she realized she was falling behind with her duty, and rushed into action.

"Sorry, can you add extra mayo to that?" she said, leaning over his lap to talk to the girl at the booth.

"N-No mayo," he whispered, and when she turned her head to look at him, she realized his eyes had fallen upon the hand she had placed on his thigh. "No mayo!"

"And can I have caramelized onions?"

"No, no onions, pickles. Lots of it."

"No pickles! Onions!

"And chipotle sauce, double cheese, bacon..."

"Double bacon and no cheese for me!"

"You want fries to go with that, sis?"

"Of course!

"Two large fries, then. And two small chocolate milk-shakes..."

"Strawberry."

"Okay, two strawberry milkshakes. And make them large, will you, sweetheart?"

The girl seemed to blush when he winked at her again, smiling one of his most charming smiles.

"Sorry about all the mess," he purred. "My sister here is a little indecisive."

And then, he turned his head to look at Emma, with the same smile splattered on his face, and she had the sudden urge to punch him between the eyes.

"No problem..." the girl offered, returning his smile with a wink of her own. "Will that be all?"

"Yes."

"That will be ten dollars ninety-five."

"Tell me something,_ sweetie..._" he said, his eyes never leaving the girl's as he reached for his pocket and pulled a crumpled one-dollar bill out of it. "Do you happen to have a phone number?"

Emma rolled her eyes. Phone number, _really?_ Was that his best pick-up line?

"I'm afraid I can't give it to you..." the girl replied, blushing violently.

"Why, you have a boyfriend?"

"No, it's not that... It's just... you know," she whispered, looking around. "Company's policy."

"Oh, too bad..." and then, he gave the girl the one-dollar bill, licking his lips as he stared at her. "I'd love to have a drink with you."

Emma's eyebrows went up, and she had to bite her tongue not to blurt out how terribly unoriginal he was.

"Yeah... Maybe some other time?"

"I can't wait."

"Right..." the girl responded, finally looking away to check the bill on her hand before she placed it on the cash register with a frown. "Hang on, how much did you give me?"

"Eleven dollars, sweetheart."

"You... you sure?" she asked, with a frown.

"Absolutely."

Emma watched as the two of them exchanged another glance, waiting for the resolution of that little charade, torn between her hunger and the desire to see Neal fall flat on his face with his silly seducing schemes.

"Sure," the girl finally replied, smiling again. "Here is your order."

"Thanks, honey."

He gave her a final wink after picking up the brown paper bags, and slowly pulled out back onto the street.

"Wow..." Emma said, rummaging through the packages and stuffing her mouth with french fries. "From girlfriend to sister, talk about a change in a relationship."

He let out a chuckle, before parking the bug in an alley and placing one of the bags on his lap.

"What are you talking about? As far as I'm concerned, you're still wearing my underwear."

"Yeah, I guess that bonds us… in a very unique way."

"It does. It's almost like… a pact."

Her eyes caught up with his, and she had the slight impression that his smile had never been that genuine before. But then again, she had to remind herself that lying to people was apparently what he did for a living, and even if it wasn't, it was not as if she could expect Neal Cassidy to be anything more than a business associate... The man didn't seem to take _that kind of interest_ in her, and maybe it was better that way.

"Well, if it is a pact, then you have to wear my underwear as well."

"My oh my, you're full of fetishes, aren't you?" he giggled. "What have I gotten myself into…"

"I wonder if your _girlfriend_ got our orders right?"

"Someone here is jealous..."

"Why would I be, I'm just your sister, remember?"

"Yeah right..." he kept smirking at her as he unwrapped his sandwich, and then his smile disappeared from his face. "Oh no!"

"What?"

When he leaned over to look at her sandwich and confirm his suspicions, his shoulders drooped in defeat.

"They actually put extra mayo... in the _two_ sandwiches."

Not for the first time that day, Emma Swan laughed for very long minutes, feeling bits of anger and misery that had long ago been imprinted on her dissolve as she looked at his pouting face.

"Don't blame the poor thing. I'm sure she was too busy swooning over your charms to even notice."

"Well..." he muttered, after letting out a sigh and exchanging his sandwich for her fries. "There is no such thing as perfection, is there?"

And then, he was looking at her again, and she felt her heart skip a beat.

"No," she answered, clearing her throat as she shifted on her seat. "There isn't."


	3. Chapter Three: Madame Chanel

**Chapter 3: Madame Chanel**

She dragged her feet after spotting the fast food parlor she was about to walk into.

"Twelve damn blocks, Neal..." she complained. "I'm wearing boots!"

He could have at least left her a pair of sneakers along with the umbrella. Though now that she thought about it, she couldn't actually remember the last time she wore anything other than boots, or heels. And back in Portland... well.

Maybe she did have a thing for boots, after all.

"And onion rings..." she muttered, closing her eyes and sniffing the air as she approached the counter with a smile on her lips. "Excuse me, my name is Emma Swan, I-"

"Oh. Just a moment."

She raised her eyebrows when the attendant turned on her heels and ran towards another girl, whispering excitedly while pointing at her.

"Are you Emma Swan?" asked a young man wearing braces.

"Yup."

"Oh, don't mind them," he said, after realizing her eyes were on the two girls at the far end of the counter. "This dude stopped by earlier today, left an envelope and asked us to give it to you with a large order of onion rings," he explained, reaching behind him to get a greasy packet and place it inside a brown paper bag. "Don't know why those two started bouncing off the walls..." he complained quietly, shrugging.

Emma gave him a sympathetic smile. Apparently, Neal still had it in him to cause a commotion amidst female fast food attendants.

"Thank you," she said, after grabbing the packet and the envelope.

_'Good job,_' she started reading, after sitting on a bench on the sidewalk and unfolding another piece of paper. _'I thought this was a tricky one. See, I didn't think you would remember it.'_

She paused, letting out a sad smile before reading the rest of the note. There were things about him, about them, that she should have forgotten by now. Eleven years had gone by, and it was not as if they had had a friendly breakup. Maybe exactly because they didn't say their goodbyes properly, she could never close that chapter of her life.

_Maybe she simply never wanted to._

_'But I'm glad you did. As a reward, you get a snack - I hope you still like onion rings. And hot dogs.'_

"What, is that it?" she said quietly, turning over the piece of paper and looking for the rest of the note. "Hot dogs, is that my clue?"

It was not as if they had had hot dogs once during their days in Portland. It was more of their regular meal, the only hot items that were generally easy to pocket when they stopped at gas stations and such.

"You'll have to do better than th-"

She was shaking the envelope when a tiny tag fell onto her lap.

_Chanel_

Her face lit up with a grin, as memories of another day from a very distant past filled her mind.

* * *

_"Oh my God, my head..."_

She had just stumbled out of the bug to spot Neal not so far from where she was, brushing his teeth at a sink by the entrance to the restrooms of a local children's park.

"I told you to go easy on the bourbons," he said, eyeing her with an obvious look of concern when she reached him.

"I _did _go easy on the bourbons," she replied, squeezing toothpaste on her own toothbrush with a somewhat shaky hand. Her glasses were slightly out of place at the bridge of her nose, but she doubted it would make much of a difference. If anything, her sight would still be blurred due to the amount of alcohol still flooding her bloodstream. She had gone easy on the drinks, after all, but apparently she could not hold her liquor as well as she thought she could -

at least, not when her drinking partner was Neal Cassidy.

"You're a real lightweight, Swan."

She rolled her eyes at his taunt, and the two of them lowered their heads to the sink at the same time.

"Emma!" he yelped, feeling something gooey fall upon the back of his head.

"Sorry!" she chuckled, watching him splash water over his hair to wash away the toothpaste foam she had spitted on him. "I still don't get why you insisted on paying, I was almost getting away scot free."

"By flirting with the barman?" he replied, with a raised eyebrow, as he dried his mouth on a towel. "Bad idea."

"Spoke the man who got a free meal after hitting on a fast food attendant a couple of weeks ago."

"It's different."

"Oh yeah? How so?" she asked, taking the towel from his hands.

"I saw the way he was looking at you."

"What, did you get jealous?"

She smirked, raising an eyebrow as he put away his toiletries and sprayed some deodorant under his arms. In a way, she liked the thought that he could be jealous of her. Not that he saw him as anything other than a business associate of course, because she didn't actually see him as-

"Don't be silly," he cut her thoughts short, without a hint of hesitation in his voice to give her the benefit of doubt. "He could have hurt you."

"He wouldn't! And we would have saved ourselves a couple of bucks," she replied, before her ears turned even redder. "You know I can defend myself."

"Til the day you can't. You had drunk enough, and he was stone sober. You were at a disadvantage."

She opened her mouth to speak again, but he gave her no time to protest.

"No drink is worth your safety."

Something warm spread across her chest, and maybe it had something to do with the way he seemed to be genuinely concerned about her. So maybe he didn't see her as anything other than a business associate, but still... It felt good to be cared for, at least once in her life.

"What you laughing at?"

"I'm not laughing, it's just..." she said, trying to swallow back the smile that had curled her lips. "I'm not used to people worrying about my safety."

"Well, we work together now, don't we?" he replied, trying to look serious despite the joyful spark in his eyes. "So get used to it."

She watched as he made his way back to the bug, until a particular memory from the night before flashed before her eyes.

"Hey, hold on," she said, quickening her step to catch up with him. "I remember something about a celebration."

He merely turned his head to look at her in silence, and kept walking.

"What were we celebrating?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh come on. I'm sure you said something."

"I didn't."

"Hey," his hand had just touched the handle, and he was about to open the door when she pushed it closed. "Wanna hear something about me?"

Again, he was silent. The only visible sign that he had acknowledged her question was a frown, and a look that he certainly expected to be disdainful.

"I have a superpower," she said, her eyes never leaving his as she spoke. "I can tell when people are lying."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm serious. And you, Mr. Cassidy, are _lying._"

"About what?"

"What was the occasion?"

"Gee, you're really not gonna let it go, will you?"

"Nope."

She saw him shift his feet, scratch his neck, and then look away in a very lame attempt to hide how uncomfortable he was.

"It was my birthday," he answered at last, looking at his own shoes.

"What?"

"No big deal," he was quick to add, opening the door again. "Let's get going."

"Hey, wait," she closed the door once more, eliciting a grunt and an eye-roll in the process. "What you mean, no big deal?"

"I don't like birthdays."

"But you wanted to celebrate."

"I didn't, I... I drank too much yesterday, that's all."

For a second, his eyes caught up with hers, and she simply raised her eyebrows to show he had been caught in her bullshit detector once again. He cleared his throat, and let out a sigh before speaking, making sure to avoid her eyes until the very end.

"It makes me think... of my childhood. Of days I want to forget."

Neal Cassidy was an expert at putting up the most charming facades, she thought, as he slowly made his way into the car and she was left thinking of his smiles, his winks, his jokes. But there were times, and that was one of such, in which he failed miserably to hide his cracks, and all she could see in his eyes was sadness and loneliness.

_He reminded her of herself._

"Can we... Can we go now?"

His voice brought her back to reality, and she walked to the other side of the car in silence, lost in memories of days that she too wanted to forget.

* * *

"Ready?" he asked, as soon as they got downtown.

"Ready."

"Got your cigarette?"

"Yup."

She rolled her cigarette between her fingers. And so it was that they were out on the trading floor, again. The rules were simple: get people on the street to trade one object for another, suiting people's needs and getting higher-end goods as the day progressed... Sometimes they did end up with something they could pawn for some decent money, like the day she traded a cigarette for headphones, then headphones for a pair of sunglasses, and sunglasses for a concert ticket they sold for 50 bucks.

Of course it had taken her an entire day to get it done, but she was not the kind of person that gave up easily.

"Meet you at the pawn shop at 2, okay?" he said, pocketing his cigarette before walking away.

"Kay."

"Good luck to you."

"You know I'm gonna win this, don't you?"

"What you talking about?" he chuckled, turning around to look at her and walking backwards as he spoke. "This is not a competition. We are a team, remember?"

"Yeah right..."

She laughed when he bumped into an old lady and apologized profusely before disappearing around the corner.

* * *

"So?"

When they met at the pawn shop some three hours later, she had to swallow a smile and shrug with a defeated sigh as she approached him.

"Not this time..."

"You ended with nothing?" he asked, his fingers outstretching nervously over the counter. "How the hell did that happen?"

"Mr. Cassidy."

The voice of a very tall, bearded man resonated through the room before she could offer any explanations.

"Jo."

She watched as Neal hurriedly reached for his pockets, placing what looked very much like a fine Montblanc pen over the glassy surface.

"So?" he asked, his eyes darting from the pen to the broker's face, and then to the loupe on his hand.

"Would be worth a fortune..." the man whispered, after a long minute studying the item, "if it weren't a fake."

Neal's shoulders drooped in defeat when his counterpart put the pen down.

"Ten dollars."

_"Ten?"_ he yelped, his eyes filled with obvious disappointment. "Oh, come on. Fifteen."

"Twelve. My last offer."

She saw him look at her face for a moment, then scratch the back of his head with a grimace.

"Fine... Whatever."

As soon as he pocketed the ten-dollar bill, the two of them left the store as fast as they could, with Neal cursing under his breath.

"Now watch him sell that pen for a hundred bucks, the bastard..." The vein on his forehead seemed about to burst; if there was one thing that bothered him beyond explanation was to be on the losing side of a bargain. "How much do you have on you?" he asked, his eyes still showing the quiet desperation she had gotten used to seeing every time something in their plans went wrong.

"Seven dollars... Ninety-five."

"Oh well... Could be worse," he whispered, getting into the car and tapping the steering wheel as he waited for her to join him. "I can't believe you got nothing."

"Well... I did get something," she said, a smile curling the corners of her lips as she looked out of the window. "But we have to stop at Goodwill first."

"What for?"

"You'll see."

She truly wished she could have waited until they had driven at least two blocks to spill the beans.

"I got ourselves a fancy dinner," she blurted out, clasping her hands together as she shifted on the seat. "For your birthday."

"A fancy dinner?"

He sounded horribly unimpressed by her announcement. As a matter of fact, the frown on his face showed, if anything, that he found that idea nothing short of ridiculous.

"Emma... We live in a car!"

"I know that. But don't you wanna know what it is like? To have... a fancy life?"

"Actually, no."

"Oh, come on! Just once."

Her enthusiasm was greeted with his usual expression of disbelief as he turned off the ignition and got ready to leave the car.

* * *

"I'm not gonna wear this," he announced, looking at the shirt and jacket she had picked for him.

"Well, you should. You look great."

Truth was that she didn't actually pay much attention to his complaint; she was busier looking at her reflection in the mirror as she tried on a silk purple dress with a pair of silver flats.

"No," he insisted, losing the jacket and looking at his reflection in the mirror as well.

"At least get some shoes," she said, although she was inclined to insist that he should really take the shirt: it looked way too good on him for him not to. "Yours are pitiful."

"Emma, we don't have money to waste on fancy clothes!" he hissed.

"No, we don't, but I have credit."

"How?"

"I gave them one of my coats."

She saw him whip his head around to find one of her coats over the counter, in he hands of an attendant.

"You really wanna do it, don't you?" he whispered.

"Yeah."

A smile curled her lips when put the jacket back on, but not after letting out a very audible, unhappy sigh.

"Fine, then," he said, as he stepped into a pair of black loafers that looked far more decent than the ones he had been wearing. "But I look like an idiot."

"No you don't," she replied, her eyes shifting quickly from his reflection to hers as she let her hair down and smoothed it, in an attempt to look classier than her usual self. "How do I look?"

She searched for his eyes, but they seemed to be avoiding hers.

"Nice," he replied with a shrug, after scanning her figure as fast as he could.

_Nice._

For a moment, she remembered what it felt like to be stuck right in the middle of everything. Not pretty enough to get the boys' attention, but not ugly enough to be bullied either. Not the smartest, or the dumbest; neither the quietest, nor the most talkative. She seemed to mingle well with her environment, to the point of becoming a part of it, invisible to others, immune to their curious glances.

_Nice._ Just average, plain, boring… _nice._

She studied her figure for a while, smoothing her dress as she noticed her pale skin… lips far too thin and teeth slightly uneven that ended up drawing more attention than her eyes… Her eyes. She liked her eyes. More than she liked her bony knees, or her narrow hips, her flat chest…

"Why the long face?"

His voice made her jump; she hadn't noticed he was still behind her, their bodies separated by mere inches.

"Nothing," she replied, quickly searching around for her bag so that they could leave.

Suddenly, she didn't feel as enthusiastic about their dinner anymore.

"Come here."

Before she could move, though, she felt his hand on her waist, and for a moment her heart stopped. She could feel the warmth of his skin even through the dress, and she honestly hoped he hadn't noticed her shuddering at his touch.

When she lifted her gaze to the mirror again, she saw his hazel eyes bearing into hers, and her breath caught in her throat. It was almost as if he could read into her mind, her soul, into her heart beating faster.

His other hand had reached for the side of her head, and when she felt his fingertips run through her hair, she let her eyes flutter closed.

"There," he whispered, tilting her head upwards. "You look like a princess."

She shuddered again at his voice so close to her ear, and this time she was sure he had noticed. It was time she got her act together; she was clearly tired, hungry and sad, a bad combination that had nothing to do with… him.

She didn't have that kind of feelings for him, and he most certainly did not think of her like… _that._

"Is that so?" she asked quietly, when she opened her eyes and saw that he had attached a butterfly pin to her hair.

"Yeah," he replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Prettier than one, even."

Her eyes dropped to her own feet as she thought about his words. There was this sort of unspoken commitment between them in which they both tried not to burden each other with more sadness than life had already given them; for that reason she knew he would do, and say, whatever to put a smile on her face, and she was grateful for that… Even when what he said was not entirely true.

"Thanks."

* * *

Two hours later, they were standing before the entrance to Le Petit Bistro, arm in arm.

"Well," she said. "You'll have to guide me through it, because I'm as blind as a bat without my glasses."

"Then put them back on."

"Shhh. Here he comes."

She squeezed his arm as soon as she saw the maitre walking towards the hall to greet them.

"Bonsoir, Madame," said the man, greeting them with a slight nod. "Monsieur. Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes, we do. We are guests of honor, actually."

"Oui. Your names?"

"Oui, yeah… Uhmm…" she squeezed Neal's arm even tighter and took a deep breath before answering. "Coco Chanel and ... _Jacques Clouseau_."

From the corner of her eye, she could see the man by her side blink a couple of times, apparently in shock with the fake identity he had been given. In front of her, the maitre's chin trembled, and his thin lips curled into a half-smile before he checked his list of guests for the night. Certainly, he was not expecting to find such names as he scanned the piece of paper. But, much to his surprise, he did, and his eyebrows went up for a brief second before he could regain his composure.

"Madame… Chanel," he said, after another polite nod. "Monsieur _Clouseau._ Please follow me."

She let out a sigh of relief as soon as the man turned on his heels and walked into the dining lounge.

"Jacques Clouseau?" Neal hissed, as they followed the maitre. "Are you serious?"

"I'm sorry, that was the first name that came to mind!"

"I know, but… _Clouseau?_ Like, really?"

"I needed French names!"

"Actually, you didn't. You don't need to be French to eat at a French restaurant."

"Stop being such a buzzkill!"

The maitre stopped next to a candlelit table, and she felt very silly for smiling so broadly. Her eyes took everything in: from the tinted crimson bottle with a single white lily inside it, to the white napkin carefully rolled into a marble ring next to the silver cutlery. She had never seen so many forks and knives and spoons in her life: as far as she was concerned, all a person needed was one of each.

When her eyes finally met Neal's, she realized he was already sitting at the table, glancing at her with an amused look in his eyes. She probably looked like a fool, mouth gaping and all.

_She couldn't possibly care less._

Behind her, the maitre was waiting for her to sit so that he could push her chair - even that made her smile.

"Thanks," she whispered, clutching the purse on her lap and looking around to see how she was expected to hold herself.

"Napkin goes in your lap," she heard Neal say, with the casualty of someone who had done that many times in his life. "In case you're wondering. And the forks and knives? Start with the ones farthest from the plate and work your way inwards."

"How do you know all that?"

"I didn't always live in a car, you know?"

He winked at her before looking around, still lacking the same enthusiasm she was displaying. And so, he knew how to behave in such occasions. There was so much about him that intrigued her... But if he had never told her anything, probably there was some sort of invisible line she was not meant to cross.

"Were you born here?" she asked, looking at the tablecloth with renewed interest as she avoided his gaze. "In Portland?"

She raised her eyes to his just in time to see him chuckle as he placed his napkin in his lap.

"How about this?" he asked, his eyes slightly less playful despite the smirk on his lips. "You don't ask questions about my past, I don't ask questions about yours."

_Shot down in record time._

"Oh," she muttered, her ears going red as she faked a careless smile. "That makes you sound like... s-some sort of serial killer."

"Well, I'm not a serial killer," he replied, shifting on the chair as he drew in a deep breath. "Or a sex maniac. Or anything of the sort, so you can chill out."

"Good."

She kept her smile in place, almost as if her lips had frozen in a lifeless upward curve. She didn't care about him that much, so it didn't really matter if he felt like telling her things or not.

She didn't care.

She _really _didn't care.

Her chin trembled a little, and she took that occasion to reach for the bottle of water and fill her glass - the perfect excuse not to look at him in the eye.

"Look... It's not that I don't trust you or anything," he said, his voice low and hesitant. "It's just that there's nothing... worth telling. Sorry."

"That's OK."

She took a large gulp of water, staring at him from the top of her glass. His gaze had dropped to the empty plate in front of him, and she took that chance to study his face, before a waiter showed up with a bottle of wine in his hands.

"Chardonnay, 1976," the man said, showing Neal the bottle before pouring some of the wine on his glass.

Without a second of hesitation, he gulped down the wine and nodded; apparently, the sign the other man needed to fill her glass, refill his, and excuse himself.

"Well," she whispered, holding her glass with a certain amount of insecurity as awkward silence fell between them. "Happy Birthday."

She saw a smile curl his lips, and it was the kind of smile that made her feel strangely happy to be near him. A smile that made her smile in return even when she felt the saddest, one that made her heart skip a beat and she simply didn't know why.

"Thanks," he replied, raising his glass as well.

"I kind of understand it, you know."

"What?"

"You, not liking birthdays and all," she said, sipping her wine as she spoke. "I'm not sure I like them myself."

"Why?"

"I don't know..." she shrugged. "When I was a child I used to see these other kids getting all hyped up... Sending out invitations and showing pictures of parties and stuff... I got invited for a few, at school. Never went to any," she paused for an instant, her eyes resting on a fork as she revisited the bits of her childhood that sucked the least. "I knew that I had to take a gift... But I could never afford one, so I just... I think I was embarrassed. So I didn't go."

"What about your birthday parties?" he asked, his glass of wine long forgotten as he crossed his arms over the table.

"There was one. I think I was 10. There was this school I went to, and I still don't know if they just spelled my name wrong or if the cake belonged to another girl... There was this, like, huge 'Emmy' written in icing..." she said, rolling her eyes as she shook her head with a faint smile on her lips. "But they gave me a party hat and a bag of candy... And they told me to cut the cake after blowing the candles. It was fun."

Maybe not as fun as having a party at home, with family and friends, and people taking pictures and laughing...Still, she had kept that party hat for years. She would probably still have it, a memento from the only birthday party she had ever gotten, if it hadn't gotten lost in one of her many changes of address.

"You know," she continued, raising her eyes from the table only to find him smiling at her again. "When I have a kid, I'll make him a birthday party every year. With ribbons and cardboard pictures and a cake... With the right name on it, of course..."

"You want kids?"

"Yeah! I mean, not now... But yeah. One day. A boy and a girl. Maybe more," she tried not to laugh at his face. He seemed shocked, and at the same time fascinated, at her idea of having a small army of children. "You?"

"Kids?" he asked, reaching for his glass as he looked away. "Never gave it much thought," he paused to drink some of his wine, raising his eyebrows as he looked at her face. "It's not as if I can afford to have one living in a car."

"You won't be living in a car forever, you know?"

He had just opened his mouth to speak again, when the waiter reappeared.

"Escargots en Persillade," he said, serving them what she assumed to be some sort of exotic stew. "Our entree."

"What is this?" she heard Neal ask, his face as pale as a ghost as he stared at the dish that had just been placed in front of him.

"Snails, with garlic and parsley."

She wiggled her eyebrows at the word snails, but the man sitting across from her was far from amused. He looked positively sick, saddened and ready to run, his fingers flexing over the table as he looked at the food.

"I'm not a fan of snails..." he muttered.

"Well, in that case you can have the soup inst-"

"Yeah," he muttered, pushing the dish away. "I'll have the soup, then."

* * *

When dinner was over, Madame Chanel and Monsieur Clouseau left with the same classy demeanor as they had arrived. The only difference was that now they had their pockets and bag full of souvenirs from Le Petit Bistro.

The last stop of the night would be at Washington Park, their usual hiding place when the nights were not as cold as they usually were during winter. The first days of spring were still far too cool for them to venture sleeping out, but that didn't mean they couldn't spend at least a couple of hours sitting on the roof of the bug, enjoying the breeze as they checked their hauls.

"I pocketed all the bread and butter when they were not looking," she said with a smirk, as she removed the contents of her bag and placed them by her side.

"We got soap for an entire lifetime," he said, emptying his pockets as well. "And mouthwash! Can you believe it? Bless posh restaurants and their posh restrooms."

"And a scarf."

"And... you're not gonna believe this," he chuckled, reaching for something from under his shirt. "A hat!"

"You stole a hat? How?"

"It was left in the gents room. I had to flatten it a little, but I mean..." he put on the Trilby tweed hat as he spoke. "I found it very... _Clouseau_."

When he tilted his head upwards, she couldn't help but laugh.

"Do yeau have for me... the mass-age?" he said, wiggling his eyebrows as he faked a very convincing French accent."I got one zis morning from ze yard of Scotland."

She felt her sides were about to burst as he continued with his impersonation, and she had to make an effort not to fall to the side as she clutched her stomach, gasping for air.

"Now all I need is the trench coat," he added, grinning widely as he grabbed her arm just as she started to slide from the car.

"Oh my God..."

She saw him stealing a glance towards her as she wiped away a happy tear from the corner of her eye, still laughing.

"So..." he took off the hat and ran a hand over his hair before speaking again. "What's the verdict?"

"On what?"

"On living fancy."

"Boring," she shrugged, bringing her knees closer to her chest as laughter finally subsided. "And the food is not that great."

"Right?"

Only then did she realize that he had only emptied the pockets of his pants. Apparently, even after all the fruit shaped miniature soaps and several little bottles of mouthwash he had already pulled out from inside them, there was still room for more, but this time in the pockets of his jacket, from where he took out two hot dogs wrapped in aluminum foil.

"Where did you get these?" she asked, her eyebrows going up in awe.

"From the gas station, while you filled the tank."

"Thank Goodness, I'm starving!"

"The duck à l'orange was not a hit, then."

"If they had served more duck and less orange, maybe it would have been."

She took an eager bite from her hot dog, feeling way too happy for a person who could didn't even have a bed to sleep on...

"You like stories, right?" he asked, while munching on his snack as well.

"Yup."

"Kay. So I'm gonna tell you one. You ready?"

"Yup."

He put down the hot dog and crossed his legs, clearing his throat as he straightened his back and stuffed his chest.

"Once upon a time..."

His narrative was abruptly interrupted by a loud snorting sound.

"What?" he asked, with a frown.

"Is it a fairytale?"

"Not sure about that..."

"'Once upon a time' is for fairytales."

"Not necessarily."

"Ok, whatever. Proceed."

"Once upon a time, there was a boy. The son of a spinner. Do you know what a spinner is?"

"Someone who spins."

"Yeah. Pretty much. So, the boy and his father lived together in a very, very distant land. He had no mother. He had... sheep. And a goat. And chicken. Life was hard, because they were very, very poor. Bu-"

"What was his name?" she interrupted, as soon as she finished eating her hot dog, lying back to look at the sky as she listened to his tale.

"Whose?"

"The boy."

"The boy was... The Boy."

"And the father?"

She turned her head to look at him, and saw hesitation spread across his face as he opened his mouth to respond.

"Wait, don't tell me. The father was called... Father."

"For storytelling purposes, yes."

"What is the name of this story?" she asked, chuckling slightly as she closed her eyes.

"It doesn't have a name, it's just... a story."

"You're making it up as you go."

"Well... Yes. And no."

"Someone is feeling mysterious today..." she replied, feeling a little drowsy as the distant chirping of crickets filled the air.

"Can I go on?" he asked, and she smiled at the hint of annoyance showing in his voice.

"Sure."

"Where was I?"

"They were very poor."

"Oh yes. But the boy had big dreams. He dreamt of becoming... a knight."

"A knight?"

"Yes. He thought of war strategies and enemy armies coming from distant lands... He would slay dragons, and ogres, and all sorts of evil creatures... and he would protect his village, and his father."

"Was his father ill?"

"He had a war injury. The rest of the village didn't like him much, called him... Hobblefoot."

"That's cruel."

"Yeah..." she opened her eyes to look at his face, only to see him pouting like a little boy. But then, it was gone: he waved a mosquito away from his face, and went on. "Well, anyway, one day the boy was drafted. His time to fight in a war had co-."

"Wait," she interrupted again. "Is this some sort of sad, "curl-into-a-ball-and-cry" story?"

"It's a... strange story. It is sad, yes, b-"

"Is this going to have a happy ending?"

"I don't know," his voice was low and hesitant before he chuckled. "I hope so."

"Yeah, you'd better come up with something. I don't like sad stories"

"I'll try."

"Did the boy go to the war, then?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. His father was too scared of losing him, so he came up... with a plan. He would steal something from a very powerful wizard, and..."

She heard him pause for a moment, but her eyes were far too heavy for her to open them and find out the reason why.

"Emma?"

"Hmmm?"

"Are you sleeping?"

"No. I'm hearing. He stole something, then?"

She heard him move next to her, and her eyes shot open when she felt his hands on her legs, pulling her down into his arms.

"Come on," he said, holding the door open as he helped her onto the backseat. "You should get some sleep."

Her whole body felt warm despite the cool breeze, but still, he was careful enough to cover her with a blanket.

"Great job today," he whispered.

"Hmmm?"

"Day trading. You did a great job."

"If you don't watch out, I'll become better than you," she replied, her voice sleepy and slow as she pulled the blanket over her nose.

"I guess you already are," he whispered again.

"I heard that."

The last thing she heard before he closed the door was a quiet chuckle, and then his voice again.

"Night, Emma."

"Night, Neal."


End file.
